Red Eyes Cry Blood

Title: You're fired! (Being chapter three of my "disturbing" Red Eyes Cry Blood series.)
Author: Ima Pseudonym
Rating: PG (13?) for this chapter
Summary: Jackson seeks his revenge.
Notes: No death in this chapter. But I have every intention of killing Keefe in the next. ^_^ This chapter was beta'd by meletor_et_al who showed me that my love for commas is unrequited. :p But she didn't give up on me, and for that I'm grateful. As all of you, who read this, should be.
Disclaimer: Belongs to Wes Craven, and Cillian Murphy.


*** You're Fired! ***

Several uneventful hours later, Jackson found himself jolted awake as gravel crunched underneath the car. It was too dark to make out surroundings, but the headlights reflected off of what looked to be a dilapidated building. Really, he hadn't expected anything different. Allowing himself to be ushered out of the vehicle, Jackson noted the gun's reappearance. Clearly, they expected that now that he was so close to his doom, he'd make a run for it. And had he not seen the weapon, they'd have been right. No matter his certainty of its presence.

Light flashed briefly in an upper-story window, and the three looked up in unison. Seeing an opportunity, Jackson took it. He hadn't gone five steps before there was an arm wrapped around his throat, the only thing to keep him standing as his feet went out from under him. His heart pounded in his ears as he was shoved back towards the building, one of the men gripping his left arm as the other held a handful of his hair, gun pressed firmly to Jackson's side.

Swallowing around his heart (which had moved, inconveniently, to his throat in the last minute), Jackson shied away from the great steel door. Much too soon, it creaked open, and two new men hauled him inside. Leaving his original captors behind, he allowed himself to be ushered through the expansive room.

No one spoke. That disturbed Jackson more than anything else. The silence stretched for so long that he wasn't sure he'd even be able to speak, if called to.

It was certainly a warehouse of sorts. 'And how original,' Jackson thought, mildly surprised at his own sarcasm. Imminent death seemed more the thing to concentrate on, at the moment. Led down a series of hallways, and up a few flights of rickety stairs, they finally stopped before what might have been an office, when the warehouse had seen better days. There was little doubt that 'this' was it... If the thugs standing guard before the doors were any indication. With a hard glare that did little to intimidate, one of them opened the door and Jackson allowed himself to be manhandled inside.

'Another shocker,' Jackson's brain helpfully deadpanned. The office was, of course, gaudy in it's opulence. From the heavy silk drapes hanging over the barred window to the gauche Turkish rug that spread across the room in ugly shades of red and blue.

"Please. Take a seat." Those were the first words Jackson had heard in hours, and they sent chills racing down his spine. It occurred to him that it hadn't been so much a request, as he was shoved backwards into a chair at the center of the tacky rug. Despite all effort to remain cool in the face of death, he found himself clinging to the arms of the chair, knuckles white.

Adjusting to the light that must have been kept purposely dim, he studied the man before him -- the one apparently in charge. And if in charge, then he must have been...

"Mr. Larche." Jackson didn't have the strength to feel pleased at not stuttering. Or embarrassed at the airy rasp that was his voice, after so long spent without words.

Michael Larche. The largest crime boss/assassin ringleader that no one had ever heard of. The man who had connections with every terrorist, communist, and Republican group in the world. Or so the rumors went, around a selective group of ears. The man who the Russians had hired to kill Keefe... and the man who was not exactly pleased with the job Jackson had done. Not for the first time in just the past few hours, Jackson found himself wishing that they really had properly slit his wrists in the prison. The look Larche was giving him suggested several more unpleasant types of death.

Jackson sat nervously before him, feeling as though he were on a roller coaster with far too many unpleasant turns and loops. It was as if he were now on the slow incline, before the tracks ran out and he plummeted to his demise. He felt nauseous.

"My boys told me about what you did. With a bat! Blood everywhere." The man let out a surprisingly high-pitched laugh then, that chilled Jackson's blood further. An image of the dark cell, with black blood everywhere, formed unbidden in his mind. And there was the drop. He felt his stomach fall as the world fell out from under him, and then he was vomiting on the gaudy Turkish rug.

Ungentle hands hauled him back into his chair, from his kneeling position on the floor. He sat through Larche's cursing, shaking slightly from the exertion of retching. He no longer worried about being shot. Vomit was easier to clean up than blood, after all.

"Fucking handmade, too." He decided that informing the man that it had been a waste of money would be a terrible career move at the moment. So he simply sat, wallowing in his misery, and waiting out whatever this was.

"Mr. Rippner, I'll be very direct with you. You single-handedly lost me seventeen million dollars through your incompetence. And my relations with the Russians... well, they've been better. At first I thought of having you killed... But I was advised against it. You are alive today because I am a forgiving man." He paused here, but Jackson only continued to watch him, warily. He wasn't about to thank the man for his 'kindness'. Prison hadn't exactly been a step up from death.

"Being that I'm a forgiving man, I've reflected on it... and you're going to have a second chance."

Short nails (bitten in a newly acquired nervous tick) dug into the well-oiled leather armrests.

"I don't- ..How?" The generous offer wasn't filling him with any sort of gratitude. Things could easily go as wrong as they had before.

"You are going to finish the job," Larche started, and before he could stop himself the name escaped Jackson's lips.

"Lisa-"

"-Won't be harmed. She's not our concern."

The frame of the chair creaked from the strength of Jackson's grip. She was very much 'his' concern.

"You're going to finish the job with Keefe... and you'll do it alone, without my resources at your disposal. I've learned not to throw men or money away on a lost cause."

"That's not possible! His security will have doubled. I can't possibly do that alone. And 'without' financial aid? I'm 'dead'! I can't exactly work part-time at McDonalds to pay for everything I'll need. I'm not even armed-" He cut off, abruptly, when he found himself staring down a .44 Magnum. His breath left in an embarssing 'whoosh' as Larche emptied the cartridge of bullets, before tossing the weapon at Jackson.

"It's not possible..." he whispered, holding the cold gun, almost sure he could feel it sucking the warmth from his skin.

"I had considered that out-and-out threatening you might not be enough. Now, Jackson... I'm well aware that you're smarter than you look." He was simply too exhausted to be offended by that. "I wouldn't have assigned you to Keefe in the first place if I'd doubted your abilities. But it was a shit plan. Too much reliance on other parties... I have a little faith left in you, yet, despite your fuck-ups. And here's the deal I'll make you... You kill Keefe, and apart from letting you live, I'll fund a cause much more meaningful to you. Your revenge, for instance."

Jackson didn't have to think about it.

"No." Saying 'no' to Michael Larche was as good as signing your own death warrant.

"You're saying no to my generous offer?" The sound of guns cocking filled the room. To his credit, Jackson didn't flinch.

"I'm saying no to the money. My revenge will be had on my own terms. I'll kill Keefe," he was immensely pleased at the confidence in his voice, "but then I want out."

There was a long silence. Too long. Jackson felt the 'coaster starting to derail.

"Still got balls, I see..." The tension bled out of the room, thickly. "You just may pull it off."

"But it will take me a year to do it."

"You've got two months."

"Well then I'll need ten grand. Chump change to a man of your success, surely?" Larche didn't seem at all pleased by the request, but Jackson wasn't a fool. They were both fully aware that it couldn't be done without some financial aid.

"...I'll give you three."

"Five."

"...All right. Five thousand, to have it done in two months." That certainly seemed like the end of the discussion.

"But if it's not done... You know there is no place, on this planet or off, where you can hide..."

Jackson swallowed around a dry mouth, suddenly remembering the soreness of his throat.

He held no illusions that he would ever get 'out'. This wasn't a profession you could quit. But he had to at least hope they'd allow him his revenge before they came after him.

"Get up." One of the nameless thugs hauled him to his feet and shoved him towards the door.

"Best of luck..." was the last thing Jackson heard before a gun butt cracked against the back of his head and the dust covered floor of the hallway rose up to meet him.

TBC...

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